


'Jerk' Is Just Another Four-Letter Word

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Trust Me (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fact is: Mason doesn't like Cochran. He doesn't like anything about him: the way he sprawls in Tony's chair like he owns the world, the way his condescending hand lingers on Mason's shoulder in faux-camaraderie while he dismisses Mason's ideas, the accent that grates on Mason's nerves like the sound of chalk on a blackboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Jerk' Is Just Another Four-Letter Word

"... and we go right at your target audience there and _grab_ them."

Mason leans back in his chair and lets Cochran's voice wash over him. This, he realizes, is what Cochran is best at: wrapping his campaign (well, Mason's and Connor's campaign, really) in sweet words that make it sound like passing up on it would be criminally foolish. Cochran's arrogance, annoying as it may be in 99.9% of all other situations, comes in well here; it's good to have someone do the presentation who isn't scared shitless because he's aware of the two million ways it all could go wrong. What Mason isn't entirely sure of is why _he_ is here, because it's not like Cochran is letting him get a word in, no matter who came up with the idea and spent five sleepless nights trying to make it perfect.

At the other end of the table, the client, a middle-aged FOX executive who came in with a pinched expression that cleared up considerably during Cochran's presentation, nods attentively, looking fairly impressed. Forty-five minutes later, they shake hands and agree to have their lawyers draw up a contract.

Mason watches Cochran watching them walk out the door, the edges of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

"That was... good. Really good. You did well there," Mason says awkwardly when they're alone, and before the words are even out yet he already knows that it was the wrong thing to say.

The smirk turns into a sneer as Cochran turns to him. "I'm so glad that I'm meeting your high standards. Your approval means so much to me."

The words sting more than they should, considering that in Mason's and Cochran's long history of mutual dislike, the barb was hardly anything extraordinary. Mason knows he should just let it go, but as much as he wants to be the bigger man, Cochran has a way of bringing out the worst in him.

"You know what? Fuck you, too," he says, walking out before he can say something even more stupid, or punch Cochran on the nose, because as appealing as the idea may be, he doesn't want to have _that_ conversation with Denise.

* * *

Fact is: Simon Cochran is a jerk who relishes using every opportunity to exercise whatever power he has over Mason's group to rub it in that he's their boss.

Fact is: Mason doesn't like Cochran. He doesn't like anything about him: the way he sprawls in Tony's chair like he owns the world, the way his condescending hand lingers on Mason's shoulder in faux-camaraderie while he dismisses Mason's ideas, the accent that grates on Mason's nerves like the sound of chalk on a blackboard.

Fact is: if Mason tries to be nice, it's merely for the good of the group, because he knows that the constant arguments and power-play are detrimental to their work.

* * *

Things get better before they get worse, lulling Mason in a treacherous sense of safety.

Cochran is in an exceptionally good mood as the FOX deal looks more and more certain, and the enthusiasm is infectious. Everyone in the office seems to be walking on air, smiles painted on their faces and eyes gleaming like they're all kids waiting for Christmas Day. If the deal works out, it'll be the biggest fish they've landed in months, the one that will make them gods on the Olympus of advertising and will make everyone forget the disastrous affair with Arc Mobile.

In the light of that, they're all one big family all of a sudden, animosities getting buried under all the euphoria and excitement and the realization that they've done this together.

The last big meeting, and Mason sits between Cochran and Connor, biting the inside of his cheek as Denise hashes out the final details of the contract. When he looks at Cochran out of the corner of his eyes, he sees him doing the same, even when otherwise, he's a picture of calm professionalism.

The pinched-faced FOX executive leans forward to sign the contract under the hawk-like eyes of his lawyer and everyone else in the room, who seem to be collectively holding their breaths. True to cliché, the pen doesn't work at first, and there's a rustle as everyone fumbles for a spare to hand over. Denise is fastest, of course, and then it's done and the contract is signed. Denise and Mr. pinched face smile at each other and shake hands.

The tension doesn't lift until the FOX people have left the room with Denise in tow, who turns around in the doorway to give them a final thumbs-up. When the door falls shut behind her, all the excitement they've been trying to hold in for the last couple of minutes breaks loose.

"Yes!" Connor's fist punches into the air, while at the far end of the table Tom and Hector are jumping up in what looks like a crazy rain dance, and the stupid, dopey grin on Mason's face just refuses go away.

He turns to Cochran, who looks exceptionally pleased with himself in a way that really should be annoying but isn't because they've all earned the right to be a little smug now.

"We really did it!" Mason rejoices, and Cochran smiles back in return, surprisingly not objecting to the plural pronoun. Before Mason can decide whether he thinks Cochran is the kind of guy for a high-five, he finds himself pulled forward into a spontaneous congratulatory hug.

He's so strung out on adrenaline and exhilaration that it takes Mason's brain a few seconds to catch up with the fact that he's hugging Simon _fucking_ Cochran, and another few seconds until his body reacts and he takes a hurried step back.

Cochran rolls his eyes at him. "Oh, come on now! It's not like homosexuality is transferred by hugging," he mocks, almost good-naturedly. But the way his accent is curling around the ' _sex_ ' in 'sexuality' is rubbing Mason up the wrong way, and really, he didn't even know for certain that Cochran was... that way inclined. He had his suspicions, of course, but he thought maybe Cochran was just being, well, British.

"I'm not so much uncomfortable because you're gay as I'm uncomfortable because you're _you_."

He doesn't even mean it like that.

Well, okay, he does, but that doesn't mean he wanted it to come out quite that snappish and insulting. But when Cochran's face closes and his jaw clenches, the smile at once wiped off, Mason knows he's gone a step too far. The apology is already on the tip of his tongue, but Cochran is quicker.

"In that case, I'll do you a favour and will no longer inconvenience you with my presence."

"Simon, look..." Mason begins, but before he can get a word in, Cochran is gone, the door swinging viciously from his exit, mocking Mason. All traces of the thrill he felt after sealing the deal with FOX are gone, in its place a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Fuck! You fucked this up real good, buddy_ , he thinks, rubbing his forehead to drive what feels like the onset of a headache away.

* * *

If he thought Simon was being a bastard after he took the job as their group director, then he was sorely mistaken. He was a tame lapdog before. Now, he's a hellhound.

By the end of the week, Sarah has locked herself in her office, Tom and Hector are hiding somewhere not even Mason can track them down, and Connor is pacing in front of Mason's desk, randomly pointing his finger at him in a stabbing motion.

"Look, I don't know what you did to make Cochran this mad. Maybe you put too much sugar in his afternoon tea or you pissed into his waste bin or you told him that Tony got a better parking space than him. And you know what? I don't care. I also don't care what you have to do to fix it. But you have to fix it. Now. Before one of us snaps and kills the guy. Not that he wouldn't deserve it, but I don't think Denise would be so happy about that. Though it might be worth the trouble."

Connor is starting to wear a hole in the carpet with his pacing, and all the stabbing makes Mason a little motion-sick, but the thing is: Connor has a point. Not so much about killing Cochran, tempting as the idea might be, but Mason has to make peace with Cochran before the situation escalates and becomes unfixable, if it hasn't already reached that point yet.

Still, it takes him an entire day between that realization and the point where he's gathered the courage to actually walk into Cochran's office with an eloquent little speech in mind that pops out of existence the moment he opens the door and crosses the threshold.

There's already a storm brewing on Cochran's face when his gaze falls on him, and Mason knows he has just about ten seconds before Cochran kicks him out of his office (if he's lucky) or (if not) fires him and calls security to escort him from the building. So he presses on, selling his apology like he'd sell his latest campaign to a difficult client. Which is to say, not at all as smoothly and confidently as he probably should be.

"All right. I was an ass, okay? What I said the other day was out of line. I was uncomfortable, and I was trying to make a joke, and it didn't come out quite like that. I'm sorry. I really am. Can we now _please_ call a truce?"

"I'm not sure why you'd want a truce with someone like me," Cochran counters, and his voice sounds harder and more clipped than ever. He stands and rounds the desk, coming closer, no doubt to show Mason the door. "Someone you evidently can't even stand to be in close proximity to. Well, I assure you, the feeling is mutual."

"I _apologized_. I didn't mean it, for God's sake! You want your hug? Fine!"

He hasn't exactly thought this part through before; he's only improvising, and judging from the angry glare Cochran is directing at him, it's entirely possible that he's put his foot in his mouth again. But he refuses to back down now, so he crosses the distance to where Cochran is standing and draws him into what he intends to be a manly 'see, I don't really hate you' hug.

Except that's when things go terribly, horribly wrong.

The moment Mason haphazardly throws his arms around the other man, his treacherous body just _melts_ into Cochran's. There's no other word for it. One moment there's enough room between them to comfortably call the hug manly, and a split-second later, Mason just folds into Cochran, fitting himself tightly against him before he can stop himself.

He wants to be able to say that it was Cochran who instigated it by drawing him in, but that would be a cowardly, filthy lie. Cochran isn't really doing anything but stand rigidly and let Mason molest him. The hug goes on for too long, and when Cochran eventually relaxes, it's even worse, because it brings their bodies even closer together and there's no way Cochran doesn't feel the way Mason's body is reacting.

Mason finally finds the strength to break away, taking a step back.

"I— I have to—"

He doesn't really have anything to do, except get out of here and panic, which is not something he cares to share. Instead, he helplessly points in the direction of the door, trying to find some excuse to rush out. His mind is blank, though. He stares at Cochran, whose expression gives nothing away, in horrified silence for what feels like hours.

Then he bolts.

* * *

It's not heterosexual panic. He wishes it was, because awful as the 'oh my God, I just got a hard-on for a dude' realization is, it's a hell of a lot better than the 'oh my God, I just got a hard-on for _Simon Cochran_ ' realization. He knows, because he's been there.

It's not like he never messed around with boys before, though that was years ago, before Erin. He even had a boyfriend once, in college, for all of three weeks. There was never a conscious decision to stick to the opposite sex at any point. But one day he met Erin and fell in love, and he never really had any interest in anyone else, male or female. Not for longer than a couple of minutes, anyway. Nothing he ever acted upon, except for one single drunken kiss in a back alley. And an ill-advised hug in Cochran's office.

It's nothing, just like kissing Sarah was nothing. A harmless slip, easily brushed aside and forgotten. Two weeks from now, he'll barely even remember it.

Yeah. Right.

* * *

He's too busy being wrapped up in his own little bubble of sexual crisis that he couldn't care less about anyone else's.

Right until he walks in on Connor and Sarah making out on her desk. Naked.

He turns and silently closes the door and calmly walks back to his office, where he spends the next ten minutes throwing random objects against the wall in a bout of frustrated anger he doesn't understand.

* * *

Mason is drunk.

Well, maybe not _drunk_ – not quite yet. But he's getting there fast, the bartender refilling his glass as quickly as he drinks it up. He really wants to stop drinking, just not as badly as he wants to continue.

"You might want to go easy on these," Cochran advises, and for a moment Mason is stunned because it's almost a kind thing to say, until Cochran adds, "I'm not going to carry you to your room if you pass out here."

Mason rolls his eyes, and gives the bartender a sign for another refill. "Don't worry, I don't expect you to."

"Just so that we are clear."

They're in a hotel in L.A. for the shoot of the FOX campaign. Mason was going to beg out of it, because surely being alone with Cochran on a four-day trip out of town was the worst idea, considering how things were. But then the thing with Connor and Sarah had happened, and suddenly Mason wanted nothing more than to get away for a while, even if he had to endure Cochran's company and this... this _thing_ between them.

Neither of them says anything, and Mason wishes Cochran would ask him what's wrong already because he's drowning one vodka shot after another and it's not like him. Of course, Cochran doesn't care enough to ask, and at some point, Mason cannot keep it to himself any longer and blurts out, "Connor and Sarah are dating."

Strictly speaking, he's not sure if this is true. But somehow, he doesn't think, 'Connor and Sarah are having sex in her office when they are supposedly working on the new Buick campaign' is an appropriate thing to tell the group supervisor. He's not even sure why he's telling Cochran _this_ , other than that he's here, and that Mason needed to talk about it to _someone_ , even if that someone is Simon fucking Cochran.

"I see," Cochran says, sounding like he means it, like he _does_ understand why the idea of Connor and Sarah together would upset Mason, even when Mason himself has no idea what his problem is. "So, which of them are you jealous of?"

"What? Jealous? I'm not— Me and Connor, we don't— we're not— It's not like that."

Cochran looks at him like he's a bit simple. "I _meant_ , he's your best friend. He's bound to be spending more time with Sarah than with you if they're in a relationship. Being jealous of that doesn't make you gay."

"Oh," Mason says, because really, he hadn't even thought of it like that. "I don't know. Both of them? Me and Sarah, we— There was an incident at a Christmas party once. It was nothing, really, except..." Why is he telling Cochran any of this? It's not like the man needs any more ammunition to use against him. It must be the vodka, and he _really_ needs to stop drinking, he thinks, and orders another.

Cochran, on the other hand, is annoyingly sober and perceptive. "Except even if you don't want her, you don't want her with Connor either."

Mason winces. Put like that, it sounds mean and petty and not something he would ever think. Except that he _does_ , and maybe Cochran was right that day after he lost Buick. Maybe Mason's not the nice guy he thinks he is.

He's not quite ready to admit that realization to Cochran though, waving Cochran's reasoning off like it was an annoying little fly, or one of Connor's crazy little schemes. "I just don't want them to mess up things in the group. Office romances are a bad idea. Just look at Tony and Denise."

"Tony and Denise?" Cochran's eyebrow arches sky-high, and he chuckles. "I have to admit, I didn't see that one coming. I thought Denise had better taste than that."

"Don't!" Mason aims for a sharp tone, but it comes out slightly slurred and without the forbidding effect he wanted. "Tony's a good guy."

"Tony hates my guts." It's almost as if there's a certain bitterness, hurt even, in Cochran's voice, Mason thinks, and he wonders if he's so drunk that he's imagining it. Wishful thinking, making Cochran more human than he really is. And wouldn't that be an irony: if underneath Mason's nice guy surface, he's just a jerk, and Cochran is actually a nice guy hiding under the surface of a jerk.

But, no. It's Simon fucking Cochran after all, Mason reminds himself.

 

* * *

He doesn't pass out in the bar. He steadies himself in the elevator by leaning against the wall of the cubicle and watching Cochran through hooded eyes, watching Cochran watching him, and the silence between them is tense and charged.

The elevator grinds to a halt on their floor and when they get out, Mason follows Cochran, even though his room is on the opposite end of the floor and, however intoxicated he might be, Mason is lucid enough to know that he's walking in the wrong direction. He keeps expecting Cochran to turn to him and point that out – Mason almost _wishes_ he would, but Cochran just walks on until they're at the door of his room. He fishes for the key card in his pocket and goes inside, leaving the door wide open for Mason to follow him, if he wants to.

There's no mistaking the silent invitation for anything other than what it is. Mason's heart beats faster, his throat paper dry, and he knows that it's not just the alcohol. This is going to happen. Unless he turns and walks away now, this is really going to happen.

He takes a step forward and another, until he's crossed the doorstep, pushing the door closed behind him without looking at it. It falls shut with a soft sound that cuts through the silence like a gunshot, too loud and threatening, and Mason thinks – no, he _knows_ – he's in over his head. He feels lost and stupid and anxious, wishing Simon would say something already, wishing he'd _do_ something, instead of standing a good ten feet away and watching Mason like a snake in the grass.

Cochran doesn't exactly look happy. In fact, he looks a little pissed, his jaw set and lips pursed, and a hard gleam in his eyes. It shouldn't be as hot as it is – or, as it would be, if Mason didn't suddenly remember that Cochran never really gave any indication that he wanted him, apart from some gratuitous touches that could have been entirely casual, and tension that might well have been antagonistic instead of sexual.

Maybe this is a mistake, Mason thinks, already wondering how he'll get out of the situation without making an utter fool out of himself. But then, Cochran finally seems to have decided that he's done with his ominous appraisal. He's suddenly right in front of Mason and his hand is on Mason's neck and his mouth closes over Mason's with a hunger he did a great job concealing before. The kiss is hard and angry, and Cochran's fingers feel searing hot against the nape of his neck.

Mason gasps against the unrelenting lips, overwhelmed and relieved and scared and aroused all at once. His emotions are in turmoil, but his body is less conflicted, arching against Cochran as deft fingers open his belt and slip in between cloth and flesh.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters under his breath when the same fingers close around his cock.

He knows that there are reasons why this is a spectacularly bad idea, why he should turn around now, walk out, go to sleep and forget all about this, forget it ever happened. There's Erin. The kids. The group. The fact that he doesn't even like Cochran to begin with.

Plenty of reasons. He chooses to ignore them all.

His head is swimming, he's drunk on alcohol and adrenaline and arousal, and _fuck_ , he really, really wants this, even though he really, really shouldn't. Cochran is looking at him oddly, features frozen halfway between a smirk and a frown.

"You know," Cochran says, in a conversational tone that even Mason in his state of intoxication notices is entirely out of place. "I should tell you to go to your room and get some sleep. Because obviously, you're drunk out of your mind and the _noble_ thing to do would be not to take advantage of that. But the thing is, Mason, I don't care much for being noble."

Before Mason can tell him that this is not exactly news (and quite possibly, even though he'd deny even thinking this, part of the appeal), Cochran is kissing him again, hard and deep and aggressive, as if they were arguing without words.

He kisses back and hangs on to Cochran like a drowning man.

* * *

The hangover sets in even before he opens his eyes, hammering deep in his head like an army of war drums. Mason groans and buries his head in the pillow, his initial thought of ' _I wish I was dead_ ' instantly followed by ' _I bet Simon would kill me if I asked him nicely._ '

His memories of the previous night are crystal clear, and it's entirely possible that he'd regret the things he let Simon do to him if he wasn't too busy regretting the vodka shots responsible for the current feeling of an imminent explosion in his head.

He waits a few minutes for the pain to ease a little before he braves the idea of opening his eyes. The curtains are drawn, which is a blessing because he doesn't think he could take bright morning sunlight just yet. Next to him, Simon lies propped up on two pillows, studying a file. If he noticed Mason waking up, he gives no indication; Mason would assume that Simon's just too engrossed in his reading, except his eyes are not moving over the text and he seems entirely too tense.

"Simon?" Mason asks cautiously, when he gets tired of waiting for Simon to acknowledge him. Which, of course, turns out to be exactly the wrong thing to say, or maybe the wrong kind of tone, because even if Mason means, _'Hey. Good morning. Would you stop ignoring me, please?'_ what Simon hears is obviously, _'Fuck, what the hell are you doing here?'_

He still doesn't look up from the file, but his tone is clipped and hostile when he speaks. "I'm sure you'd prefer it if I had been gone by now. But seeing as this is my room and my bed, I refuse to vacate it just so you can feel more comfortable."

"Look, I—" Mason begins, but Simon doesn't let him get a word in.

"See, the beauty of this is, you can perfectly well cast me as the villain in this little episode, as you're so terribly fond of doing. I took advantage of your considerable alcohol consumption and lured you into my bed through no fault of your own. Your conscience is clear."

Mason tells himself that it's the accent that's grating his nerves and not the implications of those words.

"Oh, shut up, Simon," he says wearily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache, that was fading a little, has returned with a vengeance. "I wasn't that drunk."

Strictly speaking, he was. But he wasn't drunk the night before, or the one before that, or any of the nights since he got hard from hugging Simon. There's no way he can blame Simon on his fantasies, just as there's no way to deny the fact that he wanted this – has wanted it for a while now – even if Simon's an ass for sleeping with him when he thought Mason was too drunk to object.

Simon is finally looking at him and his expression has softened, just a little, and dammit, but Mason _likes_ that, so he adds for good measure, "I knew what I was doing."

When Simon's still not saying anything, he presses on. "I just don't want this to mess up..."

 _My life_ , he thinks. _My marriage. My family._ But Simon is not the one who can do anything about that. Mason takes a shaky breath and finally, lamely, concludes: "... the group."

Simon snorts, which could imply amusement or scorn or both. "You mean sleeping with me will cause a rift in our cosy working relationship?"

Put like that, it does sound ridiculous. Mason doesn't really think that Simon can make his and Connor's life any harder than he already does, professionally. Then again... "Think of Denise and Tony."

"You may have been too drunk to notice last night, but I'm not Denise." Simon gives Mason a slow, deliberate once-over that makes Mason's gut flutter with something that isn't hangover-induced sickness and smirks. "And you're not Tony. _Thank God_ for that!"

Reaching behind himself, Mason grabs a pillow and throws it at Simon, grinning when he fails to catch it before it hits him in the face.

"Oh, very mature," Simon sneers, but before Mason can tell Simon that being around him just brings out the worst in him, the pillow comes flying back at him full force, making him flop back against the mattress.

"You're such a jerk," Mason says, but even though he means it – he really does; it's not like Simon suddenly became more likable just because they had sex – his words lack the usual derision.

The mattress wobbles as Simon moves to lean over him.

"And you're an arse. I suppose that makes us even," he says, before he kisses Mason.

End.


End file.
